Oh, My Days!

 Nell, waiting for Godot… The thing about writing a Christmas story every year is that I don’t get to record on the blog all the other stuff that happens in December. I could add in extra entries, I suppose, but I wouldn’t want anyone to become confused and think we actually have talking chickens in the house. We might. But we might not. I like to maintain an air of mystery.  Anyway, during December the drafty bathroom turned into a sleek shower room. Not by any magical mystical means á la pumpkin into Cinderella coach, but via the hard work of Ian the Plumber who is of the old-school plumbing type and, therefore, did a cracking job. He was amiable, neat and conscientious, and I can see why he never needs to advertise and gets all his work by word-of-mouth. Big house job ticked off the list - marvellous!  I went to see the new ‘Paddington’ film with Heather and Oli. It was good, and Olivia Coleman was hilarious as the comedy nun. It was also only an hour and a half long w...

  It is Christmas Eve. It really IS! The Lady Author has caught up with her narrative timeline at just the right moment, almost as if some planning had been involved all along. (It hadn't...) Also, you’ll notice that this final episode is headed by an original drawing of King Charles, Miggins and Pumphrey created by Lord Malarkey himself. How lovely!  Anyway, the lady hens are gathered for a final breakfast in Buckingham Palace before they begin their journey to Sandringham House for the Royal Christmas Day celebrations. ‘I thought I’d wear this to church tomorrow,’ says Mrs Pumphrey, parading around in a rather attractive plum velvet duster coat with flashing fairy light trim. ‘Very nice,’ says Mrs Slocombe. ‘But my big concern is the King’s Christmas Day speech broadcast. Is Kenneth going ahead with the recording as planned?’ ‘He’s still in bed,’ says Mrs Miggins. ‘Something about having to rest his exhausted artistic temperament and can we take him up a few crumpets a...

  In the Throne Room, the King Phantomime is stationed on his throne, ready to pull the crocodile pit lever as soon as his rescue is secured and the Grand Duchess Yekaterina tips him the wink. Anna Kissed and Nick Louse, a.k.a the Santanarchist, are playing a tetchy game of ‘Whose Veggie Stew? – the Deluxe Version’. The Granarchist is pacing the floor, annoyed that there still hasn’t been a response to the ransom note. ‘I don’t understand,’ she says. ‘I thought the British public would be in uproar that their King has been kidnapped.’ ‘Per’aps not,’ shrugs Anna Kissed. ‘Per’aps they are, at last, taking the lead from l’histoire de France, and are growing tired with the ‘ole pomp and circumstance of Monarchy. Per’aps they are sharpening Madame Guillotine as we speak,’ and she lets out a slightly maniacal French titter. ‘Mwahehehehe!’ Nick Louse, who is finding his Santanarchist outfit growing increasingly hot and scratchy, suddenly looks up from studying his hand of cards wher...

  ‘What on EARTH is going on?’ says Mrs Slocombe, as she and Mrs Pumphrey return to the party with two trolley-loads of fish and chip suppers. Spending time amongst the warmth and lovely smells of a British fish and chip shop has improved her mood enormously but that good mood takes a nose-dive when she finds the Not Forgotten Party in total disarray. The Palace Staff are marching around the edge of the room chanting loudly and waving a few hastily scrawled banners made from table cloths and linen napkins. The guests of the Not Forgotten Party have barricaded themselves in the centre of the room, using all the tables and chairs as a make-shift fortress. There is a lot of shouting going on, mostly about chickens and being hungry, although the Lady Author hastens to add that the two are in no way connected. ‘It’s all gone a bit mad,’ says Mrs Miggins, who is perched high on a side board and defending herself with a pair of rather fine silver Georgian candlesticks. ‘The staff is r...

  The Not Forgotten Party guests are arriving at Buckingham Palace. Mrs Miggins and Mrs Poo have joined Mrs Pumphrey and Mrs Slocombe, and they are busy taking coats, pointing out directions to the toilets and asking who would like a nice cup of tea. Mrs Miggins is taking fish and chip orders, which the guests are thrilled about, because who doesn’t like a nice fish and chip supper over tiny sandwiches and nibbly things on sticks? ‘I’m always a bit suspicious of those can o’ peas,’ says one guest, a chap of elder years who insists on announcing to all and sundry that, ‘I’m eighty-three, you know.’ ‘Canapés?’ suggests Mrs Slocombe. ‘That’s the badger,’ says the elder gentleman. ‘They’re very small. When you’re eighty-three you need something chunky that won’t get stuck in your dentures or make you choke. Fish and chips are just the ticket!’ Mrs Slocombe is very pleased, because at this point in proceedings, fish and chips are the only option. ‘Right,’ says Mrs Miggins, app...

  The Palace staff have gathered in the enclosed courtyard at the back of the Palace. It’s the traditional place for them all to meet in order to receive their puddings and gifts a) because there are a lot of staff members and it’s less of a squash and b) it keeps all their mucky feet from trampling over the carpets. The atmosphere is generally convivial and there is an air of excited expectation because one of the highlights is actually meeting the King and Queen properly and not whilst in passing as they go about daily business. There is a moment of disappointment, then, when instead of the King and Queen emerging from the Palace, the staff is greeted by two hens. Although the staff is aware that the King and Queen are away on their secret holiday, a rumour had been circulating that they might make a brief return for the giving out of the presents, such was the strength of the tradition.  ‘Good morning, everyone!’ says Mrs Pumphrey, trying at least to look regal in a pin...

  It is the day of the Not Forgotten Party - some point in the middle of December, the Lady Author has quite lost track of time at this point in proceedings. The local fish and chip shop – ‘Your Plaice or Mine’ – has been forewarned and has stocked up on fish, sausages, potatoes, oil, salt, vinegar, ketchup and, bizarrely, curry sauce, which is an abomination to the joy of chips but there’s no accounting for some people’s taste. Mrs Slocombe has been buttering bread for butties and making the biggest jam roly-poly this side of the Atlantic, and Mrs Pumphrey has been descaling the tea-turn. ‘What time are the guests arriving?’ says Mrs Pumphrey. Mrs Slocombe checks the schedule provided by Mrs Miggins. ‘Five thirty,’ she says. ‘We’ve got plenty of time.’ ‘And what exactly IS the Not Forgotten Party?’ says Mrs Pumphrey. ‘Well,’ says Mrs Slocombe, pausing mid-buttering, ‘it’s a celebration for the members of the Not Forgotten Association who support ex-members of the British A...

  ‘The best laid plans of mice and hens often go astray’ goes the famous poem by Scottish poet, Rabbit Bones, who is the lesser-known second-cousin twice removed of the more famous Robbie Burns. But the Grand Duchess Yekaterina is having none of this things-might-go-wrong malarkey, even if Mercury is retrograde at the current time of writing. She has magic on her side – magic, cunning and the fortitude in her veins from her family who lived through the Bloody Revolution of 1917. (N.B Mercury retrograde finished three days ago on 15 th , but the Lady Author was writing the closing chapters during the actual retrograde itself, and didn’t she bloomin’ well know it? What sensible person tries to use technology during a Mercury retrograde? No sensible person, that’s who.) Back to the Revolution. Oh yes, the Grand Duchess knows all too well the horrors of living through a period of political and social change where monarchies are abolished in favour of a socialist republic. And there...

  Meanwhile, Mrs Pumphrey and Mrs Slocombe, having made their way to the vast, cavernous room that is the Palace Kitchen, have decided to join forces in the preparation and management of the staff puddings, staff gifts, and the Not Forgotten Christmas Party. They are both slightly miffed that Mrs Miggins and Mrs Poo have made their own exclusive gang to solve the ‘Who Kidnapped the King Phantomime?’ plot. ‘We’ve always done things together,’ says Mrs Pumphrey. ‘We are like the Magnificent Seven Minus Three. Or The Three Amigos Plus One.’ ‘I know,’ says Mrs Slocombe, who would rather have tested out her detective skills than been stuck in a kitchen making several hundred individual Christmas puddings. ‘But let them get on with it, that’s what I say. We’re going to have a lot more Christmassy fun making food for a party and wrapping Christmas presents, aren’t we?’ She looks hopefully at Mrs Pumphrey who considers the proposition. ‘Yes,’ she says. ‘Yes, we are. That’s what we sh...

  Mrs Poo decides the time is right to take Mrs Miggins to meet her great-great-great grandhen the Grand Duchess Yekaterina. ‘I’m sure she’ll be able to help us,’ she says. ‘She has a strange and ancient magic at her fingertips. Did you know she managed to deliver seventy million Christmas cards without using the Royal Mail?’ Mrs Miggins rolls her eyes. ‘Of course there’s magic involved. It wouldn’t be a Much Malarkey Manor Christmas Story without some sort of magical interlude. Personally,’ she adds in a faux whisper, ‘I think it’s narrative laziness on the part of the Lady Author as a way of getting her around tricky plot points. ‘ ‘Oi!’ says the Lady Author, ‘I heard that!’ Mrs Miggins shrugs. ‘So, where is this Grand Duchess, then?’ Mrs Poo isn’t sure. She could be anywhere in the Palace. ‘I suppose we just keep walking around until we find her,’ she says. ‘Or she finds us.’ ‘Most considerate of my old knees,’ says Mrs Miggins. ‘Zay are nothing compared wiz ze age...

  Back in Royal Kidnap Central, as the Granarchist is insisting on calling the room where she and her gang of anarchists are currently holding the King Phantomime, more plotting is a-foot. It would be nice if part of the plotting involved someone turning on the lights but the anarchist kidnappers are making do with the lights on their 'phones until they are certain they haven't been followed during their escape. ‘What exactly is your plan?’ says the King Phantomime, seeing no reason to be coy about his predicament. 'Am I in this for the long haul? Will you be sending bits of me back to my family to encourage them to pay a ransom, for example? Only I've always been rather fond of my ears, despite them being of substantial size and a bit sticky-outy...' ‘Ha!’ says the Granarchist. ‘Like we would tell you our plans. What we are going to do is none of your Royal business.’ The King Phantomime shrugs his shoulders. ‘Well, it’s not like I am in a position to tell an...

 The hens are holding an emergency meeting, a bit like the government COBRA ones, but less snakey. (N.B For those of you who don’t know – and the Lady Author counts herself as one of those until fairly recently - COBRA stands for Cabinet Office Briefing Rooms. I am guessing they added the ‘A’ on the end for some sort of dramatic effect, to make it sound more cutting edge and important, you know, like a cobra rearing up its hooded head getting ready to make a lightning-quick action strike. Fat chance of that happening with our governments of late.) ‘We should have an acronym for our meetings,’ says Mrs Slocombe, who does like things to be tidy and organised. ‘How about Palace Emergency Action?’ ‘PEA?’ says Mrs Pumphrey. ‘And why not?’ says Mrs Slocombe. ‘What’s wrong with PEA?’ ‘Well, wouldn’t it be fun to say we are going for a PEA?’ says Mrs Pumphrey. ‘Not really,’ says Mrs Slocombe, who can be sensitive about all things to do with lady plumbing, and also legumes. ‘I...

  In the back of the faux BBC van, tightly secured in a red polyester Santa Claus present sack which is giving off a mighty amount of static electricity, Kenneth the Phantomime is feeling more than a little hacked off. You would think, wouldn’t you dear Reader(s) that he might be feeling frightened or anxious or upset, rather than hacked off, but no. For Kenneth the Phantomime is used to peril, drama and danger. He has been caught up in more tricky situations in his lifetime than Tricky McTricky, the Trickiest Trickster in the Kingdom of Tricky. By comparison, being kidnapped, which is obviously what has happened, sits pretty low on his Scale of Dangerous Situations. ‘Oi!’ he shouts. ‘OI!!!!!’ And he tries to bang on the floor of the van, but the sack is too constricting for him to gain much purchase with his feet. And then he remembers that he is supposed to be King Charles, who definitely would not try to draw attention to himself by shouting ‘Oi!’ ‘I say!’ says the King Ph...